


Crescendos of Our End

by Consulted_moriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Fanfic, Much angst and a very dark fic, WW2 AU, concentration camp, read at your own risk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Consulted_moriarty/pseuds/Consulted_moriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting at Winter of 1933, Sherlock finds himself in a Concentration camp for false accusation. In this, he must face the trials of being considered "Wrong" by his own homeland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fallacious Faults of the Man

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously do not own any characters from the show Sherlock or book by dear Arthur Conan Doyle. I have indeed made this an Alternate Universe fanfiction, and I do warn you that it will be dark. Of course it would be! Could you have a good story coming from a Concentration camp? Anyway, no spoilers here from the show, I do hope you enjoy. If not? Slide away and no hard feelings. :D

 

_Winter of 1933, I have found myself in a concentration camp known as Lichtenburg as I have been suspected of being homosexual. I cannot deny or confirm this, as my dear brother Mycroft had come to me and I publically engaged in hugging him. And during that time, our witnesses had come to be Nazi officers. In the mass struggle, I lost my brother as well as consciousness. I do not know if Mycroft is still alive, though I pray he is. And do you think they would listen to me? Thousands of Jews here will plead that they are not, and yet they lie. Do you think I have the slightest chance of passing as heterosexual when they’re intents on cleansing the world leaves them bloodthirsty? And do you think they have the ears to believe that I simply hugged my dearest brother, one who had traveled far and wide to get me out of Germany before **this** happened?_

                Like colors bleeding into a portrait, Sherlock’s eerie unconscious state flooded with murmuring of prisoners and crunching of gravel underneath tires. Alas, Sherlock came aware that he was inside the back of a crowded truck, the walls only thick green tarps and the road now bumpy enough to send him bumping against others. With mass apologies going unsaid, the vehicle finally rolled to probably one of the most dreadful stops Sherlock had ever faced. His eyes darted around, seeing all sizes, colors, shapes, and faces of men. But no Mycroft. Yet again, the younger Holmes brother was left without his only family. Perhaps for good. Each member was tugged from the vehicle, rough enough to send Sherlock collapsing chest first into a massive mud pit as rain sloshed down. He was roughly kicked in the side by a guard, and was thrust back onto his feet in mere moments and struggling to keep up with the horde of men. 

                It was dreaded winter, though the snow was wet enough to easily pass as rain and the grounds were no longer dirt but rather marshes. Sherlock was shoved, along with others, into a small room. Each man was forced to strip of their “Civilian” clothing and were instead given stiff material that passed as no more than a sad burlap sack to the otherwise once wealthy Sherlock. Pulling on the trousers and shirt, he quickly found blood stains hardly two days old and at an angle that suggested the previous wearer got into a fight in which he won. The given boots were worn, and he received no socks to put on under. Of course, treated just as he would suspect.

                With that, they were split into groups by a roll call, each name shouted in a thick and angry German accent and otherwise leaving Sherlock rendered submissive to this attack. His fingers trailed over his cheek, where a bruise formed under his eye. His original thought was that he’d need to see a physician, but with a glimpse around here, he wasn’t going to get any better than the potato peeler. Sherlock sighed, trying to recall what Mycroft last told him before they were attacked.

_I want you to have this, Sherlock…_

                Sherlock’s eyes widened. Of course, the small journal Mycroft had gifted him was located in his trousers, which were being carried off with a mass of clothing, likely to be burned. He looked around, finding a few nervous glances shot his way. Silent words of “Be still” came from his fellow tortured, but Sherlock resisted falling to this for now the second time today. He had already lost his brother, now he must lose everything to his name?

Being split into groups of roughly one hundred and eighty, each mob was lead to a single barrack. Stepping inside, Sherlock noted that it was about thirty feet wide and roughly two hundred feet long. This would fit one hundred and eighty comfortably, and Holmes was aware that this would not last. More were to come, as he was once told by Mycroft [on the matter of Concentration camps] “Thousands have entered through those gates, brother. But only hundreds have left”. And how many of those in the hundreds had died or been killed? How many broke free and lived the rest of their lives on the run?

Sherlock found a suitable bed (the lower bunk of the two stacked together) and he lied down, following the lead of nearly one hundred more. This bed was located close to the door, one he was planning to sneak through. As he could have suspected, guards stepped by the door more often than considered a “Check up on the Prisoners”. No, they were chickens being watched for the plumpness hinting to a slaughter. Sherlock was meat for their slaughter. He snarled, rolling his eyes and sparing but a moment to feel like he was still above this situation. And then lamps were being blown out and doors were being closed. Like a mass horde of woodpeckers, all the chattering teeth (including Sherlock’s) claimed to the cold and damp situation they were in.

And then he was up and moving. Dozens whispered, begging him to return to bed. Sure, each man was for himself here, but they did not wish to see the violent slaughter of this man near feet from their beds as he was not suspected to get much further than the doorway. He shot them a cautious glance before pulling open the door enough to slide his lanky figure out. That was one of the few good things about Sherlock in this specific situation, he was thin and often sleep deprived. Where most let these humanly desires run their lives, he hadn’t the time to spare. And where thousands would parish here for this exact reason, he was sure to survive.

_Right?_

Sherlock moved towards the other side of this camp, keeping out of spotlights and the path of walking guards. He could hear the faint clicking of many checking their safety’s off and many checking their clips to ensure the “Escapee” would be killed on sight. He was close, the mass pile of clothing now coming to view under the dim glow of moonlight pushing through the cluttered sky.

And then a shot fired.

Sherlock instinctively dived to the ground, breath caught in his throat. He looked over his body, hands doing a search for blessed warmth of blood leaking from somewhere, anywhere. Alas, he found nothing. The man breathed a quiet sigh of relief before sucking in a sharp inhale. Leaning against the cold panels of the barrack he hid against, he looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, a body had just hit the ground. His throat went tight, the danger becoming more real than before. He looked back to the mass pile of clothing. Was it worth it? Was a _journal_ from his brother worth his life? Sherlock nodded his head, his soaked and black curls falling into his eyes and earning a brush to the side by his shaking hand.

Moving forward in a crouch, Sherlock crossed the last gap between barracks before being the closest yet to his goal. He waited for the blinding light to pass his path before making a dash across the open grounds, coming to collapse in dirt and rat infested civilian clothing. He dug discretely, but hastily. Could he find his pair of trousers in this bloody mass? Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together, a small whine leaving his lips.

_No….no….no…._

Mycroft could give him but one thing to be remembered by, and Sherlock couldn’t even find it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Came a voice from behind Sherlock’s crouched figure upon the side of a clothing mountain.

_Brother, help me._


	2. We Are But Faults

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter two of Crescendos of our End, Sherlock is faced with the growing issues of being in a Concentration camp. The once wealthy brother is forced to learn what it is like to live a hard life.

Sherlock spent near a minute and thirteen seconds waiting for gunfire from the figure behind him. He awaited the coming death that never seemed to come. With visible breath leaving his blue lips, he looked over his shoulder. Of course, a man in uniform holding a Gewehr 43 (Semi-automatic rifle) was standing behind him, weapon raised and pointed. Sherlock’s eyes grazed over the wood of the rifle, it was the improved version of the original G41(W) which basically gave it a step forward in the power to send the bullet stopping Sherlock’s heart.

                “I said, what do you think you are doing?” The man shouted this time, spit flickering from his lips as he shouted in what was becoming a familiar German accent. Sherlock spun around, his bottom now planted on the clothing as he held his hands up in surrender.

                “Please,” he whispered, defeated. What could he ask for? A life to be spared when he wished it not to be? He surely was not asking the man to end it, as the German likely knew better than to do so. Sherlock had the look of wealth, he had the look of never working a day in his life and something about that gave Germans the drive to put him to work rather than receiving the “easy way out”.

                “Come with me.” The man instructed, lowering his weapon and gesturing for Sherlock to step down from the pile.

                “You have to hear me out.” Sherlock quietly pleaded, his eyebrows tugging together in panic at forever losing his journal given by Mycroft.

                “I said come with me!” The man cried again, his shorter hair drenched and peeking out from the crooked hat on his head. Sherlock swallowed hard, beginning to tremble violently as he leaned his weight forward to lift up and walk down the pile, his arms staying up all the while.

                “What’s your name?” Sherlock asked softly, finding this was his only chance. Because something in the guard wavered and told Sherlock he had a glimpse of hope. The man’s head tilted back slightly, his longer nose protruding under the moonlight. Sherlock’s hope grew, as it was often so that Jewish folk were known to have longer or larger noses.

                “What does it matter prisoner?” He replied, stepping forward and bringing his weapon support hand out to roughly grasp Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock twisted away, taking a step back. The guard raised a warning eyebrow, but did not yet pursue.

                “You have a name; I wish to call you by it.” Sherlock explained, not bothering to hide the terror in his tone.

                “Anderson.” The guard shot out like a curse word rolling off his tongue.

                “A first name?” Sherlock persisted, trying to buy time now.

                “None of your damn business is what it is!” His temper flared, sending a punch into Sherlock’s already bruised face. The Holmes brother cried out weakly and stumbled back, collapsing into the pile of clothing.

                “As I said before, what do you think you’re doing out of your barrack?” The rifle was raised, and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as the barrel came between his eyes. “You’re running out of time.” Anderson reminded him.

                Sherlock didn’t need to fight. He could have stayed quiet until a 8x57mm bullet came speeding down a barrel of a weapon designed for a range of 500-800 meters rather than point blank. Yet he fought like there was a light at the end of this tunnel that had become, what, World War II?

                “My b-brother, Mycroft,” dammit, why did he say the name? He always was finding a way to put his brother in danger, no wonder Mycroft once called him useless. “He gave me a journal, and I-I wish to find it. Please, please let me find my journal.” Sherlock pleaded, a free hand already digging in the pile beside him as if the pants could come to surface.

                Something amusing happened then. Anderson withdrew the weapon, slinging it over his shoulder and kneeling down, the strap tight against the front of his chest. “I am Jewish.” Anderson leaned close to Sherlock, his lips moving fast and his accent faded in the whisper. “I joined the troops to live. I regret it. And I am going to help you find your journal.” He gave a nod of his head, reaching a hand out to pat Sherlock’s shoulder before scooting beside the prisoner and digging into the pile. Sherlock was first frozen at the change of attitude, the fury and hate suddenly had changed to compassion and Sherlock almost wanted to throw a punch back at his now equal. “Hurry!” Anderson hissed, silencing Sherlock’s contemplation.

                Of course, they wouldn’t have long. If someone caught the guard helping the prisoner, well, they both would be dead. That was for sure. Sherlock spun over, breath coming in pants as he scrambled through only one side of this bloody mountain. “Do you think we can even find it before morning?” Anderson whispered, looking at Sherlock for only a second before back at the pile. Sherlock’s eyes were pricking with tears now, but they were unable to spill in the sheer coldness of the night.

                “Please…” he whispered to no one. “Please let me find it.” Sherlock chewed his lip hard enough to send prickling pain across his face. His hands dug, fingernails collecting dirt underneath for the first time in his life.

                “Wait!” Anderson cried a bit too loud, Sherlock looked up as the other’s voice had been loud enough to send crows launching off the top of the barbed fence, cawing off into the night. And then he looked over at Anderson just as their entire surrounding lit up in a bright light. Spotlight. It was over. Anderson’s eyes turned wide as he looked over at Sherlock, tossing him a small, black journal. Sherlock looked down at his hands, seeing the dirt over the cover page and covering the last few letters of his imprinted name. But then Anderson shoved him harshly and Sherlock grunted as he rolled backwards off the pile. “Run, they’ve spotted us but you still have time!” He shouted to Sherlock, who was scrambling on all fours to get back into hiding.

                Sherlock had gotten maybe four barracks away on all fours before he got up and ducked into the small alley between two of the barracks, watching as guards flooded past towards the spotlight. He could hear screaming towards, who he guessed, Anderson. “God, don’t let him die on my behalf.” Sherlock whispered, clutching the small notebook to his thin and numb chest. He was back out and moving across the barracks, running full speed and wheezing as the tears finally spilled. He couldn’t live this life. He couldn’t live surrounded by death.

                Sherlock ducked into his barrack just as a guard had come around the corner. He began to wonder when his luck would run out, or if he was capable of surviving this whole war on these timed coincidences. Sherlock dived into his bed, holding the journal up to be viewed as only a black rectangle in the darkness of the large room.

                Did sleep come? Of course not. He spent all night trailing his numb fingers over and over the imprinted name across the cover, trying to scratch out all the dirt trapped in the empty pages. There was hope here. And though he hadn’t a writing utensil, Sherlock had a token of sanity left in his pocket, and he dare not lose it.

                At the early call to wake, he stood up with much groaning in soreness. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, his fingers finally warm enough to tingle with sensation, and hid his journal below his belly button, tucked into the front of his trousers as he buttoned up the shirt over. He needed it on him, as it was likely guards would find it hiding in here, and who knew if he was going to be sent away again? They were pulled outside in a semi-line,  walking towards the center of the camp where role call was to take place.

                And that was when he spotted his first heartbreak of his inprisionment here. Sherlock looked over; trying to take in all of his surroundings, and that was when he noted a strange looking building. Well, it wasn’t strange, it was a rather large boxed room, with tubing coming out of one wall and down to hook into the tailpipes of several army jeeps. Why would they do that? The Carbon monoxide (as Sherlock had been able to read and had learned in his wealthy household) would leave the running vehicles and travel up those pipes to go into the room. That was a stupid choice, the carbon monoxide would kill anyone in that-oh. His eyes widened as he saw two guards with an iron hold on Anderson, dragging the screaming and kicking Jew towards the room. He had been caught. Sherlock’s stomach twisted violently enough that he doubled over and gagged up what never came-as it had been two days since his last meal.

                “Please! I have done nothing wrong!” Anderson screamed, drawing the attention of hundreds of other prisoners. Sherlock shoved through the lines headed to the main area, trying to break the horde.

                “Please, let me through.” Sherlock instructed, heart thundering in his throat. “Move out of my way!” He screamed, now shoving the tortured out of his way before he took off in a sprint across the opening. “Don’t kill him!” Sherlock blew his identity. Where anyone else would have kept their head down to survive, he stood up to try to save Anderson from the coming death.

                But he was too late. About halfway through the run, Anderson had been shoved into the room and the door had been closed and locked and the guards were moving towards the Jeeps. “You bastards!” Sherlock screamed loud enough to give himself a pounding headache that only seemed to grow when he was caught by guards who appeared to have been chasing him down. The top button of Sherlock’s stiff uniform broke against the strain as he tried to wiggle free of the many hands grabbing onto him.

                And then he was being pulled away. Sherlock’s head spun violently as he was pulled backwards, his feet trying to get to the ground, but only failing as he was tugged away too fast. “Don’t kill him!” Sherlock screamed again, veins now protruding across his forehead as he came ever closer to passing out in stress. Hands slipped away from his figure, before he was shoved back towards the mass. Sherlock tripped and fell, his left knee taking it the hardest as his palms were staked by sharp rocks. He heard some laughter, but that was most of the guards as they walked off. Sherlock felt unable to breathe, and he looked back at the four running Jeeps and he heard the pounding against the door and then there was nothing.

                A brave soul broke away from the horde, easing Sherlock back onto his feet and leading him along with the end of the line to set up in alphabetical order. “My name is Greg Lestrade.” The man whispered to Sherlock, offering him a comforting and rather friendly grin before breaking away to get into order for the roll call. Sherlock Holmes stood in the section for last names beginning with H, but he paid no mind to roll until the person behind him nudged him to say “Hierher” (German for “here”) as his name had been called. He was looking over at the building still, watching as each vehicle was turned off and two guards returned to the door. “No…” he whispered as the door opened to reveal a crumbled heap in the doorway.

                “…lastly, whoever was involved in the events that happened last night should come forward at some point today or else we will be forced to interview each of you separately.” Sherlock came back to the mob as the Guard screamed out to them.  “And if you come forward rather than we seek you out, your punishments will be less severe.”

                Sherlock’s heart stopped when the guard looked directly at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> MANY more chapters to come!


End file.
